


Intoxication ~ by Anonymous

by AngelBookofDaysModerator



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angel Book of Days Challenge, Bar Room Brawl, M/M, Pre-Canon, Rogue Demon Hunter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-03
Updated: 2003-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelBookofDaysModerator/pseuds/AngelBookofDaysModerator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Posted on the author's behalf by the Angel Book of Days Moderator - the author of this fic has chosen to abandon it.</p><p>Wesley leaves Sunnydale to become a rogue demon hunter. Timeline ~ pre-AtS Season One.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intoxication ~ by Anonymous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wolfling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfling/gifts).



Wesley is a new man.

Oh, yes, he is _definitely_ a new man. Riding on a brand new Harley, decked out in leather, a man of the highway. He's ditched his old life behind and lives vicariously these days. Things have changed since he left Sunnydale; he's a man with a purpose now, someone who fights the good fight, cloaked in mystery and intrigue. Unable to inform anyone of his mission or his identity, in order to protect them from the always imminent danger that comes with what he does. He's a rogue demon hunter, he is. He loves the sound of the word rogue, the way it rolls off of his tongue. Makes him sound important, like he matters. Makes him feel like something of a hero.

Makes him feel more than just the Watcher's Council castoff he is.

He tries to shake that depressing thought from his head as he zooms down the road, the roar of the engine thudding dully in his ears. Looking ahead, he sees the sign for his exit. Phoenix. Wesley carefully swerves the motorcycle into the turn. He's been riding for three hours straight without stopping, ever since he crossed the state line, and soon it'll be dark. There's sure to be some demon hunting to do, and then maybe he can call it a night, find a motel somewhere.

It's been a long, lonely journey. When he had set off from Sunnydale, what he'd envisioned his new life would be like was really so much more alluring than it had turned out to be so far. He'd imagined himself as being one of those insurgent anti-hero types, plagued and haunted by his past, seeking out foes and living a life full of excitement and danger. Yes, his plan had seemed so perfect when he formulated it. The reality of it, however, was much less glamorous than he'd ever thought it would be.

Staying in motels and trying to hunt for demons through California had not been anywhere as easy as he had previously presumed it would be. In Sunnydale, there had always been evil up to their ears; every time he turned around it seemed as if there would be another demon after them or another apocalypse to avert. And if not that, there was always something else, like a rogue Slayer on their hands or an evil invincible town Mayor to deal with.

Over the course of the past few months, Wesley had only come face to face with exactly seven vampires, of which three he was able to stake and the other four ward off somehow or run away from, usually while screaming in a shamefully girlish manner. There had also been five demons, ranging from the harmless to the semi-threatening, and he found it only necessary to actually kill one of them. He'd come across this one lurking in an alley near a sleazy motel he'd stopped at for the night. Cliché, really; demons always seemed to be hiding in alleyways. It'd been a Vladamir demon, a brute creature known for their deadly saliva and mindless need to throw heavy objects. He'd been able to distract it long enough with a few arrows from his crossbow and maneuvered himself behind it. Vladamirs were strong, but also quite stupid and slow, so by the time the thing had realized he had a man on his back, Wesley had been able to get his hands around the neck and snap it off with only minor difficulties.

That's the most action he's gotten all summer, though, and he knows that in all honesty the kill of the Vladamir was more of a coincidence rather than a show of skill; he's not strong, he's not experienced, and he's lacking real face to face combat know-how when it comes to the fighting department. He wishes he could be a fighter, wishes he could be quick and fast and strong. Be something other than clumsy and ungainly with his maladroit movements.

He remembers the final fight back at the high school, and how he failed so miserably. He recalls how it felt, to stand next to Angel before the battle took place, to behold firsthand the vampire's strength and power. It had seemed to be radiating off of him in waves, this creature of the night who had Wesley both slightly frightened and mesmerized by his dark energy. And in that moment, through the paralyzing, mind numbing fear, he'd been astutely aware that part of him wanted it. Wanted a taste of the darkness, of the power, wanted to be the avenging warrior, to know what it felt like to have that kind of control and be that kind of leader.

But he knows now. Knows better. He'll never be a hero. He'll always be Wesley; spineless, sidekick Wesley, the one who goes down first in the fight, meant to loom on the edges and catch the crumbs of others, watch as they gain the glory, the triumph. The respect and admiration. He'll never have that. He should know by now.

Still, he keeps going. As far as he can, wherever he can, because there's nowhere for him to go back to.

He stops at the first bar that he can find, a shabby, seedy place situated on the side of the road. The dim green neon lights read Wolfgang's, and he notices that the second g flickers in and out from time to time. Probably not the kind of place where he can order a martini on the rocks, but it'll do for now. At this point he just wants something, anything, to take away his weary, miserable thoughts and make the pounding headache that leaves his temple throbbing fade at least a little.

The bar itself looks no better on the inside than it does on the outside; in fact, it looks even worse once he's parked the Harley carefully and stepped through the doors. He takes a seat on top of a creaky bar stool, and as he glances around and takes sight of the other patrons hanging about, he realizes that this place is, in fact, a demon bar. He recognizes two Kelvish demons playing cards at one of the tables, and to the right of him sits what he thinks is a Sarx. However, under this lighting, he's not sure if the skin color is gray or brown, in which case it could be a Romulus.

The bartender turns around and gives him a brief once-over as he lazily polishes a shot glass with a dish cloth. Wesley tries to ignore the glaringly obvious fact that the towel is, in fact, incredibly filthy.

What can I get ya? the bartender questions.

Whatever you have, he replies tiredly. Somethingsomething strong.

The bartender shrugs. You got it.

Moments later a shot glass is placed before him, and Wesley watches as the bartender pours the alcohol from the bottle into it. He begins to stash the bottle away, but Wesley shakes his head and reaches for it with one hand, grabbing the wallet in his back pocket with the other.

Just leave it here, he requests, pulling out a ten dollar bill and handing it to him. 

The man behind the bar takes it with a nod and sets the bottle back down. Wesley shakes the shot glass from side to side idly, and then in one fluid motion guzzles it all at once. The sharp, stinging taste burns the back of his throat, and he chokes back a cough, trying not to wheeze. With a sigh, he stares at the amber liquid before him through bleary eyes and finally pours another shot. He sips at it gingerly this time and starts to feel the artificial warmth spreading through his body. He tries to enjoy the false relaxing sensation the alcohol is bringing. That, at least, is something familiar.

Hard day? a thickly accented Irish voice says suddenly, and he glances to his left. There's a man sitting next to him, short and lean with pale blue eyes that gaze directly into his. Wesley just glances back down at the bar top and sighs again.

More like months, actually, he responds dismally.

Ah. The Irishman nods knowingly. Figured as much. That's some rather strong booze right there. He stops, squints and studies Wesley carefully. You don't look like the demon bar type. Not from around here, are you?

Wesley lets out a loud, derisive snort. I'm not from around anywhere.

I know the feeling, the man says sympathetically, then clears his throat and gestures vaguely toward the bottle. Say, if you're not going to finish that, would you mind

He nudges the alcohol over, still staring straight ahead. Take it.

The man gladly obliges, taking a long swig straight from the bottle without wincing. He lets out a refreshed sigh, setting it back down and smiling at Wesley again. The name's Doyle. And you would be?

Wesley. He isn't sure why he even bothers to answer; probably because it's been so damn long since anyone's taken any kind of an interest in him.

So what's your story? Doyle asks, taking another mouthful of the drink.

What do you mean?

Well, everyone has a story. Let's see. The accent, that's British, of course. So you weren't born and raised here in this fine country. The leather? Looks pretty new to me, as does that shiny thing you got parked outside. You seem pretty at ease considering you're sitting and getting drunk in the middle of a demon bar, so one would assume you have some history with the demonic kind. Now, tell me. He leaned in a little closer, the playful grin sliding back on his face. What's your story?

Came here to watch over a Slayer, Wesley explains, not really aware of why he's spilling this information to a complete stranger. In California.

A Slayer. Doyle pauses and nods appreciatively. You don't say. That's serious business, it is. So how'd you get all the way over in these parts?

Fired. A strangled laugh escapes him. One thing all my life I ever was sure of, and they take it away.

Story of my life, Doyle says understandingly, reaching over and pouring Wesley another shot and then clinking the bottle to the small three inch glass. Don't be so glum, now. Could be worse.

How so? Wesley downs the shot, and it goes down easier, but still he grimaces.

Think of it. You could be sitting here alone, without the pleasure of my company, he teases, fingers playing over the lip of the bottle.

Hmm. The warmth is spreading even more, and Wesley begins to feel a little detached. It feels nice. Now thatthat would be a damn shame, wouldn't it?

The man laughs at this. Right you are.

The two men drink in comfortable silence for awhile.

Well, Doyle says, clearing his throat, about time I head out of here. Nice chatting with you. He begins to stand up quickly, drink still in hand, and accidentally stumbles. The liquid spills onto Wesley's black jeans, causing them to both jump to their feet and Doyle to let out a startled gasp as he fumbles to find something to clean it off with. Oh, sorry, I justlet me get that

He finally resorts to using his sleeve and begins to mop off Wesley's thigh. The moment he begins to stroke the wet patch, Wesley suddenly feels as if he's been hit by a jolt of electricity that shoots straight to his groin. He gasps, eyes locking with Doyle's, who seems to be having the same sensation. His hand stays in place, hovering near Wesley's crotch area, and after a few moments he pulls away, flushed with embarrassment.

Really, I'm sorry, Doyle apologizes again, ears burning bright red.

Don't be, Wesley replies, rather boldly. The bravado fades quickly, though, and he glances away from the man's piercing blue eyes. Not your fault. Just an accident. Don't worry, I'll be perfectly fine. Don't think it even left a stain.

Right. Doyle looks downwards, nods. Yeah, right. Uh, anyway, I should be going. Places to go, people to see You know how it is.

Yes, of course. Wesley sits down again on the stool, nods back courteously.

Doyle nods once more, eyes not looking in his direction again as he turns on his heel and hurries away quickly. Wesley feels an odd sense of disappointment that the man has gone. They were only talking for a few minutes, but still. He'd been lonely for so long, and he was finding that anyone who would stop to talk to him or even acknowledge his very existence was considered a friend in his book, regardless of what they had to say.

With nothing left to drink and no longer having anyone to talk to, Wesley stands up to leave. He doesn't make it to his bike, however, before he hears a loud noise from behind the building. He stops and listens, one of the voices sounding distantly familiar. He makes out an Irish accent. It must be Doyle, he realizes.

There's the sound of a fist hitting something solid, and some yelling, followed by a few very demon-like sounding growls. Cautiously Wesley sneaks up with his back to the cool brick, peering around the corner. Sure enough, there's Doyle, cornered by a demon. The creature is a Sobrii demon, he noticed. Nasty things, he remembers reading a long time ago, ones that could only be killing by stabbing them in the lower abdomen and puncturing their most vital organ. For once, his training with the Council is paying off.

Cough up the money, you little weasel, the Sobrii growls, grabbing Doyle roughly by the collar.

Please, I just need more time he stammers nervously, eyes darting back and forth with fear.

No, you need to give me what you owe. You give me the money, or I kill you. Simple as that. The demon gives him another bone rattling shake.

Wesley pulls out a small hidden dagger from underneath his jacket and slides his fingers around it. With a battle cry, he rushes forward and tackles the demon, who, taken completely off-guard, falls to the ground with him. He manages to sit upright and clumsily shove the dagger straight through the demon's rough skin. The Sobrii lets out a sound of rage and pain, so Wesley pulls the blade out and stabs it in again and again until the cries fade to strangled gurgles. When he's done, the demon lies dead.

Take that, evil fiend, he says, standing up and grinning down at the dead carcass, practically glowing.

Wow. Doyle is breathing heavily, eyes wide with shock. Youyou killed him.

I suppose I did, he agrees giddily.

Wesley bends down and picks up a little black book off of the ground, handing it to a still-stunned Doyle. Their hands brush for a moment as he takes it. Wesley can't help but notice how he has another spark at the touch, the same way he did back merely a few minutes ago with the spilled drink. He smiles at Doyle.

So, he says slowly, what's your story?

He's not sure what he expected in response, but he sure as hell didn't expect what he gets.

Doyle presses him against the brick wall, hard, and kisses him. Rough tongue intimately invading his throat, plundering inside as hands fumble and grope at him for a better hold. To his own surprise, Wesley feels himself kissing back, closing his eyes and moaning. Doyle's mouth is heavy and hot, hot as these sweltering summer nights, tasting of nothing but vodka. It tastes good, he thinks, and he wants to get drunk off of it. Wants to get drunk off of Doyle.

They're stumbling now, never breaking their hold, still pressed tightly together as they stagger further into the alley. Wesley doesn't know what he's doing, all he knows is that he doesn't want to let go. Oh, it's been so long since anyone has touched him this way, since anyone has touched him at all, really, and it feels so good. This rush, this contact, this intimacyit's a connection he hasn't felt in years, and he isn't going to let go of it now. He grabs the lapels of Doyle's jacket and pulls him closer.

Finally they are forced to pull apart for breath, both gasping for air, eyes locked together, and Wesley is shedding his jacket quickly. Lets it drop carelessly to the ground. It's too hot and confining, and his body is sticky with sweat. He moves forward, kisses Doyle again. A little less roughly this time, softer now, lips meeting each other eagerly. He feels Doyle's hands grabbing at his hair, pulling him closer, closer now, as if he wants to climb into his skin.

Wesley finally wrenches his face away, chest heaving. A motel he starts.

Doyle looks at him, blinks. What?

A motel, I'm staying at a motel tonight, he sputters out. Come with me.

Taking a step back, Doyle sighs a little, looks away. Wesley

Something wrong? he asks, suddenly hoping he didn't say the wrong thing.

There's something that you should know, Doyle continues. He breathes in, and before Wesley can blink, his face changes to a bluish green, spiky visage. A demon face. Startled, he stumbles backward with a gasp of surprise. Doyle shakes his head from side-to-side, and the spines disappear. And he's justDoyle again.

II'm sorry, Wesley stutters out, unable to tear his eyes away from Doyle's face. II have to be going

Wesley Doyle starts again, but he isn't allowed to finish.

Nice talking to you, he says, collecting his discarded jacket from the ground and beginning to back away. I'm sorry, but I must be leaving now, there are

I understand. There's a soft, sad smile on Doyle's lips, and his shoulders slump. Just go.

Wesley gives him a bumbling nod, then turns and rushes out of the alleyway, and back to the small parking lot where his motorcycle sits. He fumbles to pull the key from his pocket as he climbs aboard, shoving it in the ignition and revving the engine. Moments later, he's driving out back onto the highway.

He speeds into the humid summer night, and doesn't stop to look back.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Wolfling in the Angel Book of Days Summer Challenge. Prompt: Doyle, Wesley
> 
> Author's notes ~ This is my first try ever at slash, so I apologize, I know it's pretty sucky. Major thank you to BeingBoring21 for the very, very helpful beta!!


End file.
